Waste Not, Want Not
by HMRoberts
Summary: Severus finds that being the adviser of a newly appointed - and grown up - Professor Hermione is very different than being her Potions Professor.
1. Chapter 1 - Severus

**Waste Not, Want Not**

Disclaimer: This is an unauthorized tribute to the works of author JK Rowling who, along with her publishers Bloomsbury/Scholastic and licensees, own the rights to the characters herein portrayed; all other non-canon characters, character development, scenes and situations are of my own devising. I derive no financial remuneration from the writing of this. No copyright infringement is intended.

_This story is canon-compliant through DH1, AU thereafter. Rating is for future chapters. My first fan-fic submitted under my own name. No I won't divulge previous non de plumes. The past is in the past – we move on. Reviews are VERY welcome!  
_  
NOTE: This chapter has already published on Ashwinder - but new chpaters desperately need beta review(ers). If you are interested, please contact me! As such, however, all mistakes are my very ohnty-dohnty own! :)

**Chapter One - Severus**

Brooding black eyes stared out from under a hood of longish ebony hair without seeing; the undulating flames of the fireplace revealing his lanky, long form sprawled out in the decrepit armchair, clad in his customary old-fashioned black attire, the gracefully long fingers of one hand curled lazily around a crystal tumbler of single-malt whiskey. The flickering light cast the planes of his angular face and prominent nose into stark relief, the deep-set orbits of his eyes hiding them with only the glimmer of his orbs to belie the immense intelligence whirling in intense contemplation behind them.

Raising the tumbler to thin, yet sensuously curved lips, he took a draught of the fiery liquid; swirling and savoring the smoky, burning taste on his tongue before swallowing; adams apple bobbing, the tracery of flame-light casting lines of shadow over the massive weal of long-healed, faintly pink scar tissue on his neck. His arm drifted languidly back down to rest on the ratty, torn fabric of the armrest and he lapsed once more into his former preternatural stillness which was broken only by the shallow rise and fall of his lean chest as he breathed evenly.

The room was dark, except for the light given by the low fire in the grate, only vague shapes outside the circle of firelight could be seen; not even a candle burned to relieve the depths of turgid gloom contained within the peeling, wallpapered walls.

A boyhood spent slinking about the outer edges of his abusive Muggle father's awareness; while a mother's furtively given love was held within a miserable setting of despair and anguish; had taught the boy – and the man – well the ways of keeping his inner voices hidden, even when alone; never knowing if someone would suddenly happen upon him entertaining his more melancholic musings.

Yet, he had them and the emotions that went with them; cold, cruel and remotely uncaring though the mask he wore for the world might be. Never let it be said that the man wore his heart on his sleeve.

This is what had made him such a logical and brilliant choice as a spy; this ability to sublimate all that was truly him within a calculated shell inimical to the real person hidden far beneath. A very few had ever had the privilege – or the shock – of seeing the true Severus Snape.

And all but one of them were now dead and gone.

His mother, Lily, Albus… all gone, now.

But one remained. One who hadn't even realized she had held one of the penultimately rare keys to his true being in her small, yet deft hands. Apparently, a headful of bushy cinnamon curls was one of the keys to his enigmatic inner essence.

But it was _wrong_.

Four years ago, when the final battle of the Second Wizarding War had ended with the death of the Dark Lord, he had lain on the grimy floor of the Shrieking Shack bleeding to death from the massive wounds Voldemort's serpent-companion Nagini had torn in his throat; the effects of the Dark Arts-enhanced venom she had been imbued with snaking into every cell of his body. Severus had known he most likely would die in the war, accepting this even as he had Apparated to his supposed master's side in that malodorous wreck of a building. He'd prepared for every eventuality he could think of, including imbibing anti-venin potions daily for months in anticipation of an event such as this. They were keeping him alive for a little longer, but only just. He'd thus managed to sustain life long enough to pass on to Harry the memories he'd hoarded for such a moment; his final task for Dumbledore. After he, Hermione Granger and the Weasley boy had left, thinking him already dead, Severus had lain there knowing his actual death was swiftly approaching and he'd welcomed its tender oblivion at last. Life for thirty-nine years had been unjust and cruel to him in ways seldom known by most mortals. The velvet blackness that was racing towards him promised the release from both physical and mental pain that he'd long desired with every fiber of his being.

Only to have that insufferable know-it-all come back and discover his barely still-living self.

Everything had happened with blinding speed after that. A stasis spell cast by the Granger girl had acted like a magical tourniquet, while her frantic _Summone Medicus Auxilium_!* had brought two blood-spattered and weary Battle-Healers Apparating to the Shack. One of them had bent to look into the stricken man's face and gasped in shock; Snape saw it was one of his former students, Alador Swiggum, a somewhat Potions-apt young lad who had graduated four years earlier from Hogwarts. A whirlwind had seemed to reel around Severus then, and he next found himself in a trauma-bed at St. Mungo's, a medi-witch already casting the _Sanitatum Somno_** healing-sleep spell over him before he could protest.

Awakening some five days later from a magically-induced coma, Severus had been foul-tempered and furious at finding himself still alive. Not actively suicidal, he'd simply come to accept the inevitable and this had taken some intense fortitude and re-arranging of his psyche. Not having actually died, however, brought about a horrific, but equally intense backlash. He had given the staff at St. Mungo's hell for the four weeks he spent there while they re-grew his larynx and throat and drew out the poisons Nagini had injected through her bite into his body.

Four weeks, and several close calls later, he was pronounced healthy enough to leave, which he did with dispatch and no great relief at being away from all of the… coddling.

In the interim, however, once his survival had become known to the public, unfortunately, he'd been frequently visited. The only ones actually getting in to see him were Kingsley Shacklebolt and the other members of the Ministry; with whom he was cooperating as they conducted the trials of the captured Death-Eaters and hunted those who had fled; and Minerva McGonagall, Acting Headmistress of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Everyone else was turned away.

That had been a difficult task, however. Enterprising and star-struck witches (and not a few wizards!), both young and old, had seemingly cornered the market on Healer, medi-witch, and other attire such as that worn by the staff of St. Mungo's, intending to blend in enough to be able to visit their dark anti-hero on his sick-bed. The story of his love for Lily Evans had quickly come out (with no small thanks to the efforts of Rita Skeeter and _The Daily Prophet_) and his harrowing twenty-year stint as double-agent and carrier of a hopeless torch for his long-lost love, who just so happened was the mother of the Boy-Who-Lived, had struck a spark in the imaginations of many. The few who managed to get through both the normal wards surrounding the patient rooms of the magical hospital, and Severus' special ones in particular, soon discovered that their fantasies of leading the dark, brooding man to redemption and grateful (and hopefully!) physical… _appreciation_, soon realized their grave mistake when they would find themselves gripped by a full Body-Bind curse or a _Planta Crinis_***, the latter usually deriving from the bouquets of flowers many of them had been carrying when they had invaded the sanctum sanctorum of Severus' hospital room.

He was glad he'd escaped from those horrors, back to his family home on Spinner's End, where the mouldery exterior belied the comforts within. His house-elves were instructed by Healer Albertus Pye in Severus' care and then he was left blissfully alone, except for first weekly, then bi-weekly and finally monthly visits to Healer Pye's private office.

Following a year of testifying at trials and several adventures with the Aurors in tracking down the remaining Death-Eaters-at-large in exchange for a dismissal of all charges against him, Severus had been pronounced Healed by Pye and was gruffly glad to receive the invitation from the now officially Headmistress of Hogwart's, McGonagall, to return to his position as Potions Professor and also as faculty advisor to the new DADA professor –_Miss Hermione Granger_.

When McGonagall had informed him of the last, it had caused him a momentary mental stumble, rare for him! Such a young – she was a woman, now; he had to remind himself – becoming a professor at Hogwart's? The youngest professor ever at Hogwart's had been Mendalus Tookworth, in 1711, who'd become Professor of Herbology when he'd only been twenty-one. He, himself, had been twenty-two.

Miss Granger was just barely sweet _twenty_.

Yet, she had been one of his students that, over his years of teaching, had been a stand-out for Severus. He could count on one hand the number of those in all of his years at Hogwart's. Even so, the prospect of shepherding a fledgling instructor through her first year or two of teaching had not been a welcome prospect when he had been informed of the caveat to his own teaching contract. His sharp and scorning retort to Minerva McGonagall had been heartfelt and complete.

So why had he agreed nonetheless?

The initial stumbles every new teacher experiences really hadn't seemed to faze Miss (Professor!) Granger, however. She just took them in her usual stride, normally with a burst of her bell-like laughter at her own mistakes, which were mercifully few. What missteps she made tended to err on the side of compassion rather than perfection; the war seemed to have taken away some of her tendency towards that previous guiding principle, leaving her with a more mellow appreciation of herself – and that of others.

Weekly advisory meetings; during which she would speak of any difficulties she was having, Severus then advising or correcting her on them as well as other general matters; along with the occasional observations of her class, gave them far more time to interact one-to-one than they'd ever had while she was a student. Surprisingly, Hermione never balked at his unannounced appearances in her classroom, nor did she argue with his more pointed observances of her techniques. This level of maturity had surprised him at first; the "insufferable know-it-all" he had once taught with so much exasperation over her incessant questions, arrogant attitude and comments had become a rather thoughtful, far quieter young woman. Her arguments; though just as staunchly defended as ever; rather than being impassioned diatribes were now intelligent and well-outlined supports for her positions.

Severus had found himself stretching their required hour per week to several hours, often necessitating the request of a tea tray from the house-elves due to a missed lunch or dinner time.

The meetings were held, initially anyway, in his office just off the Potions classroom. Hermione would politely knock at the appointed time, he would give out his usually sardonic, "Enter" and she would come in; a stack of student parchment scrolls and portfolios floating behind her. He soon was able to judge how difficult her week had been by the size of that pile, which would float down and place itself neatly on one corner of his desk before she would seat herself with decorum in the worn wooden armchair across from him.

This lasted until one day early in December…

"That imbecilic _**dunderhead**_!" came the infuriated exclamation as the tightly curled brunette mane seemed to bristle with her fury as she strode into his office without her customary knock one Saturday afternoon, precisely at two o'clock.

Lifting his eyes from the potions-magazine he'd been half-heartedly perusing pending her arrival, Severus looked up from under his fringe of lank hair and regarded her coolly as the single scroll of parchment, accompanied by a rather thick student portfolio, slammed onto the corner of his desk and the witch threw herself to sprawl in the chair across from him, grumbling.

Unaccustomed to anyone behaving thusly in front of him, under any circumstances, much less using his own invectives, Severus bemusedly, but detachedly, kept looking at Hermione, waiting for the furious woman to divulge the subject of her rage. _I wonder what the young boy or girl she's so angry with has **done**_, he thought archly, working hard to not let a smirk appear on his face.

Running her hands through her mop of hair, destroying the last semblances of the usual braid she wore it in, Hermione finally looked up at her mentor and growled softly. "I apologize for every bad thought I ever had or comment I ever made about how unfair your teaching methods were, Professor Snape. How you kept from hexing every last one of us is a miracle of restraint and I applaud you for it." The young witch ran a weary hand over her face before laying her forehead in her palm and resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, then shaking her head as she wordlessly moved the now unrolling scroll in front of the now-astonished Professor Snape so he could read it. "See for yourself," she said tonelessly.

Taking the proffered scroll, Severus leaned back in his chair and waved his fingers to his glasses to settle them on his nose, and began to read.

Several minutes passed by in almost complete silence; Hermione's slowly calming breathing and the slight rustle of her teaching robes the only sounds; Severus's eyes moving back and forth quickly over the scroll's contents.

A sudden snort from her mentor brought Hermione's gaze to his face, one downy eyebrow arching questioningly at him. "Something _amusing_, Professor?" she snarled.

Stifling the urge to actually chuckle at her discomfiture, Severus set the scroll down and, Summoning a clean handkerchief, slowly began to clean his glasses as he measured his words carefully.

"Miss Granger, thank you for those kind, but quite unnecessary, words. I think, now, you have a far greater appreciation for the trials and pitfalls of being the teacher of those students whose only desire seems to be to do as little as is possible, as often as is possible. It is the bane of every teacher, Miss Granger, to be subjected to such incredible stupidity, usually on a daily basis. What do you plan to do about Davey Creel's lackluster performance?" He inquired, looking at her finally, eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"Do? What is there to do about this… this… Argh!" Hermione's cinnamon eyes flashed with ire as she gestured with her wand to the scroll and it transformed into a simulacrum of, what it represented to her.

"Miss Granger! _Really_!" Snape protested, waving his wand and changing the malodorous heap back into a scroll after which it promptly rolled back up and placed itself on the corner of his desk again before he drew the portfolio to him and opened it. He studied the student record of the third-year in question silently, then, noted something, turned back a few pages, turned back again and raised an eyebrow at his teacher-trainee.

"Have you noted this, Miss Granger?" he drawled, turning the book around and laying a long, graceful finger at the start of an entry dated from the week before.

"Noted what?" she asked with sudden curiosity, pulling the book to her and leaning forward to read the contents.

After a long moment, Hermione looked up at him, then back at the portfolio, turning back the same pages Professor Snape had done, and then looking back up at him again, an incredulous look on her face.

"You will find, I think, Miss Granger, that if you question the other professors about Mr. Creel's performance in their classes, that you will find the same pattern repeats. Every…" His modulated voice trailed off as he looked at her significantly. As understanding flooded her, her pretty (_really_, Severus?) mouth dropped open in a wide O before clapping shut with a "snap!"

"Every three-and-a-half to four weeks, regular as clockwork..." she muttered to herself "Of course! Why didn't I see it for myself?" Hermione gave a rueful shake of her head and sighed exasperatedly at herself. "Should I speak to Headmistress McGonagall, or Madame Pomfrey, do you think?" she queried Severus, once realization had dawned.

"I quite think that alerting the Headmistress would be appropriate, Miss Granger. Because, of course, if what we both suspect is indeed the case, then steps will need to be taken to ensure both the safety of the other students as well as that of Mr. Creel. Puberty-induced lycanthropy can be a vicious… _beast_, indeed." Severus gave a tiny moue of humor at his unintended pun. "Of course, it may never get to the point of full transformation, but I do note," Severus flipped back to the front of the portfolio to where the student's personal information was listed, "that his mother is listed as deceased, and his father is remarried. His father should also be notified of the issue as I would hazard a guess that he isn't aware of the hidden strain of natural lycanthropy that, I believe, runs in Mr. Creel's_mother's_ family." Severus leaned back in his desk chair and steepled his elegant digits, gazing with his inscrutable glittering jet eyes thoughtfully at his trainee.

Nodding, Hermione waved the portfolio to close and join the scroll, slipping smoothly beneath it, before she sat back in her chair and wearily scrubbed at her forehead and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes and laid her head onto the back of the chair.

Severus took the opportunity to study his former student. He saw the tiny lines that had formed at the corners of her eyes, the product of all she had seen, been through and done during the war. All of her generation was older than their years; the horrors they had suffered before even becoming young adults having marked them. He compared the tired young woman sitting across from him with the effervescent child she had been and felt an unaccustomed pang in his heart.

Too often he had wondered what his own life might have turned out to be had not Tom Riddle become the Dark Lord and he'd been drawn to his circle by heartbreak, loneliness and anger. He might have eventually overcome his unrequited love for a woman he could never have and gone on with his life. He would never know; anger often clenched his fists and a deep stabbing pain of regret would bend him over in his private moments when his mind would turn to these thoughts. Self-loathing would bathe him as he recalled the evil things he had done; regardless of why he had done them, he was still the one who had carried them out.

Unbidden, a harsh intake of breath rasped through his chest as he saw the shadows of this in Hermione's face. She, too, had seen and done things that she wasn't proud of. She, too, bore the scars of body, mind and soul from the bitter fight for survival the entire Wizarding world had engaged in. He recognized in her a tiny reflection of his own… _soul_.

"If there is nothing more you wish to discuss, Miss Granger, I suggest you report this to the Headmistress at once." Severus said gruffly, breaking the silence and returning from his momentary reverie with a rueful shake of his head at his own maudlin – and inappropriate – thoughts.

"Y-yes, Professor. Alright. Thank you." Hermione said, startling from her casual position and rising quickly, a pink flush coloring her cheeks as she gathered the scroll and portfolio then turned to leave briskly. _Was the skin of her cheek as soft as the peaches and cream coloring suggested_? Severus wondered idly as the blushing witch exited his office, before his mind recoiled from _that_ vein of thinking.

He often found his thoughts returning to her more, personal, attributes as the days wore on. His keen ebony gaze observed her; as he monitored a class, attended the tension and emotion-fraught meeting with Mr. Creel's unsuspecting father, sat in staff meetings and at the Head Table in the Great Hall, watched as she would briskly and efficiently mark student papers (her remarks were often far more compassionate – and helpful – than his own usually were)

When the Christmas holiday came, he assumed she would be spending the time with her parents. He was rather surprised, the day after the students had all left (except, of course, those who did not go home for the Christmas break –or had no homes to go home to), to find Miss Granger sitting at the Head Table for breakfast. He himself had chosen to remain at Hogwart's as well, as was his custom; Spinner's End was no place to spend what was supposed to be a cheerful holiday.

"Miss Granger? May I ask what you are doing here?" Severus inquired as he seated himself a few seats away and reached for the coffee pot nonchalantly.

"Oh! Professor Snape, good morning. No, I, uh, that is I, well," she said, flustered, before gaining her composure. "I am spending the holiday here. I have a paper that I am writing for The British Journal of Potions to work on. I would like to submit it for the second quarterly edition and need to complete it before year's end." She smiled softly and bent her head, even teeth biting into the piece of marmalade-laden toast she held between her delicate fingers.

"I see. Quite." he responded noncommittally before taking a sip of the excellent Kona blend, dark and rich on his tongue. Abstemious in most areas, Severus drew the line of self-sacrifice when it came to a good cup of coffee. "Who are you submitting the paper to for preliminary peer-review?" he asked, perusing the breakfast menu before touching his wand to the selections he preferred, sitting back as the plate of egg & veg scramble, sausages and toast appeared steaming-hot on the table before him; the accompanying chilled glass of tomato juice quickly developing a frosted sheen of condensation. Snape picked up his fork and took a bite. Delicious.

"Professor Dimripple at Morgenstern's and Professor Screeching Eagle from Salem have been kind enough to agree to do so." Hermione twirled her fork for a moment, head down and eyes on her plate. "I had hoped to ask if you…" she turned to look at him, those amber eyes soft and hopeful, "If you would be so kind as to look at it as well, sir?" came the query.

Severus paused mid-bite, suddenly realized he had a mouthful of food and swallowed convulsively before replying. "Of course." He didn't trust himself to say anything else just then.

"Th – thank you, Professor. I'm very… grateful."

He nodded his acceptance and went back to his breakfast.

Not long after, Professor Granger finished her meal and left with a swirl of her dark red robes with gold trim (Gryffindors!) and exited the Hall. Dark eyes followed her, noting that she stopped to greet the few students that were also breakfasting, paying special attention to the ones who had no choice but to remain.

Severus recalled that Hermione had always been very kind; she often thought of others before her own self and her actions in the war certainly had proved that beyond questioning. He thought back to those dark minutes in the Shrieking Shack as he'd waited for the darkness to claim him, when a certain chestnut-haired spitfire had come back – she'd come back! – and found him impossibly still clinging to life.

He'd never thanked her, he realized, finishing his toast and throwing back the last mouthful of coffee before rising from the table himself. As he strode down the aisle to the doors of the Great hall, he noted Maurice Devall; a second year student, originally from France, whose parents had been killed in the war – he now lived with his aged grandmother in Northumberton; sitting by himself at the Slytherin table. No other Slytherin students were spending the holiday at the castle.

"Mr. Duvall." Snape said, stopping beside the young boy's chair.

Maurice swallowed convulsively before looking up at his Potions Master.

"Y- yes, s-s-sir?" came the shaky reply.

"I understand you like to play wizard's chess, am I correct?" the Potions Master asked crisply.

"Ch-chess, sir?"

"Yes Mr. Duvall, chess, a game requiring brains and concentration, neither of which, I am beginning to doubt, you have ownership of at this moment." Severus put forth his considerable ability to conceal his true feelings to hide the amusement he felt at the discomfiture of the young lad.

"N-no. I mean," Maurice inhaled and sat up straighter, then looked directly at his teacher and replied more firmly, "Yes, sir, I do like to play wizard's chess. In fact," the lad grinned up at his teacher mischievously, "I am told I am rather good, actually."

An arched black eyebrow rose over an onyx eye. "Indeed? Well, we shall needs put that _theory_," Severus emphasized the last word, "to the test. Shall we say, Christmas Day afternoon, after lunch?"

Wide blue eyes under a fringe of golden hair stared up at the Potions Master.

"Mr. Duvall?" Severus said, a bit more sharply.

"Sir! Oh, yes, of course, sir. I would like to, that is, yes, if you-you," the boy took a breath, "I mean, yes sir, I'll be there."

"Very good. One o'clock, then. Please be prompt, Mr. Duvall." Severus said, gathering his teaching robes around him. He took a few steps before stopping and turning around and inquiring one more thing of the boy.

"Mr. Duvall," he said, speaking more softly, "Maurice – what biscuits do you prefer?"

"Uh, I think chocolate, sir"

"Mine as well. I shall expect you Christmas Day afternoon, Mr. Duvall."

Severus swept out of the Hall then, robes billowing, leaving a stunned but pleasantly surprised – and happy – young boy in his wake.

Minerva McGonagall turned her astonished gaze to Madame Pomfrey, her eyebrows almost disappearing into her hairline. "Whatever was _that_ all about, I wonder?"

* * *

_Author's Note(s):  
(I.)This story is (mostly!)canon-compliant through DH1, AU thereafter. Rating is for future chapters. My first fan-fic submitted under my own name. No I won't divulge any previous nom de plume. The past is in the past – we move on. Reviews are VERY welcome!_

**Beta(s) _desperately_ needed!** Please e-mail me: mysterie31

(II.) Non-Canon Spell Names:  
* **Summone Medicus Auxilium** - "summon medical help"  
** **Sanitatum Somno** - "healing sleep" (equivalent to a Muggle general anesthetic)  
*****Planta Crinis** - "plant tentacles" (ie: animated plant fronds)


	2. Chapter 2 - Hermione

**Chapter Two – Hermione**

". . . a final comfort that is small, but not cold:

the heart is the only broken instrument that works."  
~ T. E. Kalem

Christmas Day dawned bright and clear in the Scottish Highlands surrounding Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As the sun rose over the mountains, a rare Demerall's Silver-Tipped Eagle soared gracefully in the chill crystalline air over the Black Lake – its eerie keening cry echoing between the weathered gneiss cliffs of the surrounding mountains and the granite of the castle walls. She was a mature female, but still very young and hadn't yet found a mate, and so glided in solo arabesques on the currents of air calling for her life-mate to join her in her aerial dance.

The ancient walled courtyard, paved in grey and black marble (magically enhanced to never weather from abuse by nature or students), shimmered beneath a light coating of frost in the early-morning light as Hermione crossed through it to head down the open exterior cloister on her way to the Great Hall, rather than taking the more usual route down the internal staircases. She didn't mind the exercise - and the crisp, cool air was quite invigorating at this hour. At times, even she – bookish and fond of cozy nooks and crannies in which to curl up with a book or three – relished the brisk freshness of air unscented by the redolence of dusty parchment or the faint vanilla-and-old-wood aroma of the heavy, ancient tomes she was so partial to. Besides, the ethereal beauty of the first blush of the day was as refreshing a balm to her scarred heart as a glass of icy-cold water on a hot summer's day.

Pausing, Hermione leaned on the coping to watch the eagle cut its pirouettes in the cloudless sky, tilting her head back and inhaling the crisp, crystalline air – a stray lock of hair escaping unheeded from the mass of chestnut curls she'd captured in a casual braid that morning, twining the thick mass into a loose bun on the back of her head, she'd finally secured the whole with an ebony chopstick she used for the purpose. Sighing with deep-seated pleasure, with a small smile of enjoyment, she pivoted to resume her walk to the Great Hall.

Rounding the corner, Hermione's head was still turned back, her gaze lingering on the shimmering vista of the environs of the castle over her shoulder, when she ran into a solid wall of… _black_? Stumbling backwards, she would have fallen, had not a pair of strong hands encased in supple black leather gloves caught her by her upper arms and held her until she steadied. Looking up, she saw that wall, gloved hands and rescuer were one and the same – Professor Severus Snape.

"Professor Granger? In a hurry to get somewhere?" drawled her advisor in those smoothly sardonic, chocolaty tones of his.

"Oh! Professor!" Hermione exclaimed in embarrassed shock, "I – I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going." Hermione felt her face flush as she stammered her surprise in a breathy rush.

"Obviously," was the dry rejoinder.

Stepping back until she felt the cold stone of the wall behind her, Hermione took in the man before her.

Accustomed to his all-black attire from her years as his student, she had seldom paid much attention to the cut of his clothing beyond a general impression. Now, however, she noted the stark black of his form-fitting frock coat with its long row of tiny black-pearl buttons, slightly nipped in at the waist, the cuffs also buttoned. She could see the small peeks of white from the dress-shirt he wore under the coat, flares of snowiness at throat and wrists. Nowadays, he'd added a soft silk scarf, also in black, tied as a cravat at his neck, obviously to hide the scars of his encounter with Nagini. The black dress robes he wore over his inner clothing, in honor of the day, had been left open at the front and were caught on either shoulder with clasps made of black jade in the form of stylized Slytherin snakes; the soft pleats of fine wool draping over Severus elegantly down the length of his lean form; the ensemble completed by long legs clad in trousers of black and his rather large feet in impeccably shined dragon-hide boots.

Why, he looked positively dashing! _Wait, where had __**that**__ come from_? Shaking her head at her errant musings and clearing her throat to banish the sudden thought from her mind, Hermione self-consciously lifted her soft chocolate eyes from contemplating Severus' feet, back up to his face, noting the smirk on it.

"Happy Christmas, Professor Snape," she said finally, with as much contrived nonchalance as she could muster.

Severus looked at his apprentice thoughtfully. _Happy Christmas_, she'd said – and _meant_ it. Not a perfunctory greeting, like everyone else gave to him. She had spoken the words with a warm smile on her lips, her tawny-gold gaze sweeping up to his face was open and kind – not the least hint of fear there.

A quirk of Severus' lip preceded his rather unexpectedly pleasant reply of "Likewise, Professor Granger," before he nodded to her precisely once, then swept around her, robes rippling around him as he proceeded back the way she had just come from.

Casting her eyes after him, one downy eyebrow lifted in unconscious imitation of her former professor (now her DADA and Potions Master), her nose detected the scent of sandalwood and bay that was left behind as he strode off. _Well, that had been… interesting_. But - where was the snide, snarky - and often cruel - Snape she'd always known? She shook her head once more. It wouldn't do to let her thoughts wander down _that_ particular garden path.

Continuing on her way to breakfast, scenic vistas now forgotten, Hermione instead thought about the events in her life since the war had ended up until now…

The year of living in constant threat of death or capture along with the privations of camping on-the-lam, the never-ending stress of keeping Ron's and Harry's spirits up, researching madly to find the answers to the Horcrux puzzles – all culminating in being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange at Malfoy Manor and then the events of the final battle at Hogwarts – these had all been eclipsed by finding Profes… _Severus_…Snape clinging to life, but still _alive_.

She hadn't seen him after the Healers had taken him off to St. Mungo's, but she had testified at his trial before the Wizengamot and was inordinately pleased when he was exonerated – and then presented with the Order of Merlin – First Class. She had been happy that all of his years of living a double life had been, at last, recognized. She had respected most of her teachers, save for the few like Gilderoy Lockhart whom she had nothing but contempt for. But Snape had earned a special place of regard with her. Even before Harry had shared the memories Snape had given to him, she had believed in the trust Dumbledore had given to him, so she knew there just had to be an explanation for his actions on the Astronomy Tower that night – and his actions after.

She'd never forget the scene at the Shrieking Shack that still so often played out in her dreams…

Having heard from Harry what Severus' true role had been, after the battle she had returned to the Shack, simply wanting to retrieve Snape's body. Sliding to her knees beside his still, pale form, she'd taken up his blood-spattered cold hands between her own warm ones; wincing at the sight of the great, bloody, gaping wounds the terrible snake had inflicted on the white flesh of his long neck; and looked into that careworn now-still visage with a newfound understanding of the events which had imposed themselves indelibly upon it. She found herself staring at the thin, bloodless, cold lips that would never again sneer at her or from which his acerbic and cutting wit would spring forth in some comment about her being an insufferable know-it-all.

Sudden tears had sprung to her eyes, then, as she'd felt a yawning gulf open up inside of her. She realized at last just how many faces she would never see again. It had been hard enough to see Cedric Diggory's waxen features at the Tri Wizard tournament; the face of Albus Dumbledore composed in eternal stillness had stricken her to her core. But, now? All of those people she would _never see again_, their images (particularly those of the broken bodies lying in pale stillness on the floor of the Great Hall) flashing in quick succession through her teaming brain – Tonks, Lupin, George, little Colin – and then… unbidden, hot tears had fallen onto hers and Severus' entwined hands as she'd knelt, head bowed, beside him on the blood-washed floor of the Shack. So many lives lost. So many lives _**wasted**_ - all for a psychotic megalomaniac's demented desires for power and immortality. She wept for them all – and for her own lost adolescence as well.

That was when she'd felt the twitch from Professor Snape's cold hand – and had magically "screamed" for help using the "_Summone_…" medical-emergency spell.

The weeks after that had been a blur. Between avoiding the devious ploys of Rita Skeeter to interview her ("Exclusively, darling!") for The Daily Prophet, interrogations by both the Aurors and the Wizengamot, the trip to Australia with Ginny and Ron to retrieve her parents and remove the Memory Charms she'd layered on them for their own protection – after all of which she'd headed back to Hogwarts to take the special private classes with the professors that the Ministry of Magic had set up in order to allow students whose education had been disrupted by the war sit for their NEWTs and graduate – which tests, as expected, she'd passed with the highest marks seen in almost a quarter of a century. Prior to leaving Hogwarts for his well-earned retirement, Professor Slughorn had positively beamed with pleasure as he personally delivered her test scores to her in the Gryffindor Tower common room, annoying Professor McGonagall to no end. In between all of this, Hermione had also assisted in the massive repairs that had been needed to the castle and environs. With her natural skills in Transfiguration and Charms being on a par with – or even surpassing – those of the outside consultants brought in by the Board of Governors to restore the ancient building and grounds, her assistance had proved invaluable.

And that had been _just the first two months_!

After passing her NEWTs – and after the majority of the castle repairs had been gotten well underway – Hermione decided to take some time away from the wizarding world; to make an attempt to repair the rift she'd created between her and her parents.

Mr. & Mrs. Granger had been understandably very upset with their daughter for erasing her from their life and catapulting them halfway around the world to Australia. Although they understood why she'd done it, they simply couldn't reconcile the Hermione they'd always known with the battle-scarred and hardened young woman who had found them in "The Land Down Under", when she'd arrived with Ron and Ginny to remove the Memory Charms a few weeks after the final battle. It was extremely difficult to accept for the middle-aged couple; it was as if they'd fallen asleep with one Hermione and awoken to another; she had felt almost like an imposter to them.

Mrs. Granger, in particular, had had a difficult time interacting with her "new" daughter.

Hermione's mother had always been the one who had coddled and cosseted her single chick; being unable to have any more children after Hermione's birth had been hard for the woman who had originally wanted several. "Losing" their only child to the wizarding world at the tender age of eleven, a world the Granger family hadn't even known existed, had been a hard blow to both parents of course, but to Hermione's mother the worst.

But to suddenly "come to" (in Sydney, Australia of all places!) only to be faced with a drastically changed Hermione; matured beyond her years, tell-tale lines already forming at the corners of the cinnamon eyes that spoke of horrors witnessed and desperate deeds done; had almost sent Hermione's mother over the edge – a fact that fed fuel to her father's simmering fury at what he felt was betrayal at the hands of his offspring.

Deciding that a change of scenery might be beneficial to reconciliation; ie: being in a "neutral" environment; that August Hermione asked her parents to accompany her on an extended vacation to New Mexico, in America. Hermione had been awarded an Order of Merlin – First Class, for her "…contributions to the war effort…" which had come with a substantial monetary honorarium as well. Using some of this, she'd rented a guest house for two weeks at the Marshall Guest Ranch, outside of Taos, New Mexico. The two-bedroom adobe building – decorated in dé riguéur Southwestern décor – was very comfortable and the ranch provided many amenities like horseback riding, desert camping and more, as their guests desired.

One night, as the family was sitting out on the flagstone patio with glasses of wine, quietly enjoying the crackling fire of fragrant mesquite wood in the open adobe fire-pit, Hermione had unexpectedly broken down; her slim body wracked by soul-deep sobs. She finally told her parents of all the harrowing experiences she'd had since her introduction to the wizarding world seven years prior; Hermione's pain, grief, and anger came pouring out like a raging storm. As she told her stunned parents the story of Harry "The-Boy-Who-Lived" Potter and Voldemort, how she had been so centrally involved, her parents began to get a glimmer of why she'd risked losing her parents forever rather than see them hurt or worse by Voldemort and his minions. They finally realized that had Hermione done anything other than what she had done for them they most likely would not have survived. The dawn sun rising over the mesas saw all three holding one another and talking together with mingled tears and laughter. Their healing had begun – and would continue, hopefully.

Upon returning from America, Hermione had applied to and had been accepted in the advanced master's program at Coulter College in London. She'd sat for her exams at the end of that year – her high marks earning her the right to begin to teach in any of four areas: Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts (DADA) and – and, surprisingly, _Potions_.

After being awarded her composite degree, a meeting with her former Head of House, McGonagall, had happily led to Hermione being offered an entry-level teaching position at Hogwarts, where she would teach first through third year DADA students while also doing her Master's apprenticeships in both Potions and DADA.

If Hermione's choice of pursuit of a dual Mastery in both DADA and Potions had surprised Minerva, she hadn't let on to her former student. That only Severus Snape was qualified to Master in both disciplines was going to be an interesting…_development_…to watch unfold.

**Author's Notes**

Wow! I cannot tell you how deliciously I was surprised by the reception I've gotten here at FanFic. To all of you who have read - _and especially those who have taken the time to review!_ - my deepest thanks. I pray not to disappoint.

To reduce confusion, yes both this and the previous chapter began with reverie's/scene-setters. I did this to establish the backstory for the chapters to come. One more like it and then we'll be in the thick of it, I promise! :)  
~HMR


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